


cheetahs never prosper

by fluffysfics



Category: Doctor Who (1963)
Genre: Angst, Cheetah Virus, F/M, M/M, UNIT Era (Doctor Who), the Doctor is suspicious, the Master is a very unconvincing human, the Master’s time on Earth, they are both sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:53:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25939981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fluffysfics/pseuds/fluffysfics
Summary: Stranded on Earth, the Master is horrified when the cheetah virus that has long lain dormant makes an untimely appearance. With no TARDIS of his own to synthesise a cure, he turns to the one person he knows will help him.
Relationships: Third Doctor/The Master (Dhawan), Thirteenth Doctor/The Master (Dhawan)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 43





	cheetahs never prosper

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ThoughtsCascade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThoughtsCascade/gifts).



> many many thanks to Jay for this idea, it was BRILLIANT and sad and completely on-brand for me, and I just had to write this

It’s been decades. Earth is so relentlessly boring; the Master supposes that he ought to be grateful for something interesting happening, just for the excuse to leave the house. 

But as he stands outside UNIT headquarters in an oversized hooded coat, keeping his head down and waiting for someone to notice him, gratitude is the last thing on his mind. 

It’s late at night. Random members of the public generally don’t know where this place is, so it’s not long before a man in a green jumper grabs his arm roughly. The Master twitches at the unwanted touch, resists the urge to gouge the man’s eyes out, or something else equally violent. He needs help, not a jail cell. 

“Hey, sonny. This is private military property. I’d suggest you find your way home.” The soldier tugs on his arm, trying to pull him away, but the Master stands firm. Slightly too firm- the UNIT man looks surprised. Well, he’s about to look a whole lot _more_ surprised, unless he’s got an unusually strong constitution. 

He lifts his head, and startlingly bright yellow eyes glitter in the reflection of the overhead lights. “I need to see the Doctor.” 

The soldier lets go of his arm, takes a step back in alarm. He reaches for his gun- the Master scowls, and raises his open palms to shoulder height. 

“I need to see the Doctor,” he repeats. “Look, I’m surrendering. Take me to him.” 

UNIT obviously does not hire people for their intelligence, the Master thinks. This man keeps a gun trained on him, and calls over a colleague. There’s a hasty, whispered conversation that his enhanced hearing picks up the entirety of. They’re going to cuff him and take him inside, and see if the Doctor wants to talk to him. 

Preempting the soldiers, the Master obligingly sticks his wrists out to be cuffed. Not how he’d usually behave. Were these more normal circumstances, he’d have turned these idiots into tiny dolls, blasted the lock off of the gates, and gone to find the Doctor himself. 

But resources are scarce at the moment, so he remains silent as the UNIT soldiers clap him in irons and drag him into the building. One stands guard, and the other runs off to find someone with some actual authority. 

Twenty excruciatingly long minutes later, the Master is led to the Doctor’s laboratory. He recognises this place even now, after all these years- the smell of chemicals and tea, the miserably defunct TARDIS standing sentry in the corner. He eyes it hungrily, and wishes he could take even a short hop to the future. Just ten years off of his long, long imprisonment here would be a small mercy he’d do almost anything for. 

It’s late, so Jo Grant doesn’t appear to be hanging around. Shame. The Master had liked her, back in the day. Never mind. This’ll probably be easier if it’s just the two of them. 

The Doctor bustles out of his TARDIS and into the lab, looking only mildly surprised at the appearance of a handcuffed man with yellow eyes, and an armed escort. 

“Evening, gentlemen. Am I right in assuming that you want something?” 

The Master’s hearts _ache_. He curls his hands into fists, sharp claws digging painfully into his palms. He cannot let himself get distracted by nostalgia. 

“This...creature said that he needed to see you,” the soldier says. “Practically demanded it. Brigadier said to let him up, but that I was to stay with him, in case of—“

“Oh, poppycock.” The Doctor waves a hand. “Uncuff the poor young fellow at once! And leave us alone- I suspect you’re making him uncomfortable.” 

The UNIT soldier makes as if to disagree, but the Doctor cuts him off with a stern look, and he hurries to obey. The Master has to duck his head to hide a smirk. 

When they’re alone, the Doctor sighs, resting a hand on the Master’s back and steering him to a chair. 

“Terribly sorry about that, dear chap. They can’t get out of their soldiering habits, even for someone who is _clearly_ not a threat. Unfortunately, we’ve had quite the run of bad luck regarding aliens, we never seem to encounter any of the nice ones.” The Doctor shakes his head sadly, and wanders away to gather up some equipment. “What seems to be the problem?”

The Master glances down at his clawed hands. The problem really ought to be obvious, he thinks. “This isn’t my usual appearance.” He sweeps his hood back, revealing deep, rich yellow eyes, and small tufts of pale golden fur sprouting where his beard comes to an end. “It’s a virus. The cheetah virus. Left unchecked- it’ll get worse, until I lose my own mind completely. And I don’t much feel like growing more fur, so if you could make the suppressant for me, I’d appreciate it.” 

“Ah,” the Doctor says, clearly not having expected his patient to have such a thorough knowledge of his own condition. 

“Please, tell me you can make the cure.” The Master grits his teeth, and his elongated canines prick at his lower lip. 

It had taken him a long time to come here. The first symptoms had appeared five days ago- increased sense of smell, a sudden craving to eat that nice steak in his fridge without even cooking it first. He’d considered all of the available options, and concluded that there were exactly two paths available to him- succumb to the virus’ resurgence completely, or seek out the only version of the Doctor that he _knew_ would be around on Earth at this time. 

Option one had been pretty tempting for about a day, until he’d remembered himself. He needed to be alive; he needed to break the Doctor, _his_ Doctor, when he saw her again. That was the thought that had kept him going for this many years; he couldn’t give up on that _now_. 

And so here he is, begging this version of the Doctor to save his life. It would be humiliating, if the Doctor knew who he was. 

“...I’m sure my TARDIS could synthesise something, this might be a little beyond the capabilities of my laboratory.” The Doctor reaches for his arm, then hesitates. “Ah, may I?” 

“What are you going to do?” The Master grips the arms of the chair tighter; feels his claws dig into the leather. 

“I need your blood, that’s all. Don’t worry, dear boy- you’ll barely feel a thing.” He picks up a needle that is several inches long and alarmingly wide, and smiles. 

Some things, the Master thinks, remembering _his_ Doctor’s manic smile on the Eiffel Tower, never change. 

More importantly, though- _fuck_. 

Having his blood drawn would give him away the second the TARDIS got a hold of the sample. But- he had no choice. It was this, or give in to the virus. 

He rolls up the sleeve of his coat, thrusts his arm out, and the Doctor calls him a ‘good lad’ and sticks the needle in. 

It hurts, the filthy liar. 

Once the hole in his arm has been patched up, the Master curls his hands into fists and stares at the TARDIS. She is his only hope of getting away with this now. 

_Don’t tell him who I am_ , he thinks. Begs, really, but it’s a wound to his pride to admit to doing that even mentally. _Please, don’t tell him who I am. It’ll only hurt him_. 

That’s a good argument, the Master hopes. If the Doctor knew who he was, if he deduced anything about their history- their future, from his perspective- he would be shattered. 

And it’s not this version of the Doctor that he wants to shatter. His hearts are set on the feral blonde one that he can’t stop thinking about, can’t stop _loving_ \- he wants to see _her_ break into a million pieces, wants to hold the pieces in his hands, wants her on her knees because she can’t stand under the weight of what she knows. That’s how he had to feel. She deserves it too, and nothing less will—

“What’s your name, dear boy?” The Doctor’s voice echoes from inside the TARDIS, and the Master freezes, wondering if he’s about to be caught in a lie. 

“Harry,” he says. It’s a fake name he’s used so often that it feels alarmingly real. “Harry Marsters.” He remembers all the fake names he’d used, back when he was young. This Doctor had fallen for every single one, and a lot of them had been more obvious than this. 

“Harry. Thank you. Can I offer you a drink, Harry?” 

Nothing the Doctor will offer a human will get either of them drunk, and the Master doesn’t much fancy having to pretend to be tipsy. He looks to the light on the top of the TARDIS, and mouths ‘thank you’. 

“I’ll be fine,” he says to the offer of a drink, and the Doctor pops his head out of the TARDIS, and shrugs. 

“As you wish. It’ll take a while for my ship to synthesise you a cure, I’m afraid. She’s hardly running at full capacity.” 

The Master nods knowingly, and then catches himself and stops. Act human. “She doesn’t look very big. What sort of a ship is she?” 

“A TARDIS,” the Doctor says briskly. “Time And Relative Dimensions In Space. In terms I’m sure you’ll understand- she travels in time and space.” 

The Master looks suitably impressed, peering through the doors to see the large console room beyond. “Bigger on the inside, too?” 

“Indeed. The finest time ship this side of Gallifrey, I think you’ll find.” 

He can’t help himself. 

“Gallifrey. Is that in Ireland?” He smiles innocently- as innocently as it’s possible to smile with fangs, anyway. 

“Ah. No, dear boy. Gallifrey is my home planet. One of the most great and terrible civilisations ever to exist. But they’ve exiled me, so currently I am trying to ensure that they are _not my problem_.” That, the Master remembers, does not go very well. The Time Lords can never resist interfering in the Doctor’s business. 

“Fascinating,” he says, a hint of a catlike purr lacing his words. “If they’ve exiled you... I assume it’s too much to ask for a trip in the box?” 

The light on top of the TARDIS flashes- not bright enough for the Doctor to notice, but the Master catches it from the corner of his eye. It’s a warning. Stop teasing her pilot, or she’ll reveal everything she knows about him. _Fine_. 

“I’m afraid so.” The Doctor leans back in his chair, and sighs. “Tell me, Harry- how did a young man such as yourself come to be infected with a virus like this?” 

And there’s the question that he’s been dreading. Time to lie. The Master thinks, then adopts a tense expression and curls his legs into his chair. 

“I was on my way to work- I work at MI6, see, in data analysis. And- this man- shorter than you, impressive beard, dressed all in black- he grabbed me off the street, stuck a needle in me. Explained what it was, said he’d be watching me.” 

“The Master,” the Doctor says, frowning perhaps just a little suspiciously. Hearing his title from this Doctor’s mouth is almost enough to make him shiver. “That’s...odd. Hardly his usual modus operandi. Never mind, dear boy- we shall get you a cure, and I shall confront the Master when our paths inevitably cross again. He’s quite the dastardly villain, you know.” 

There’s a smile on the Doctor’s face as he speaks, and his tone is reminiscent of the way one might boast about a significant other’s achievements to one’s friends. 

The Master knows that his younger self will be thoroughly confused to be confronted about sticking the cheetah virus in innocent humans, but never mind. _Harry_ will be long gone by then. He smiles and nods politely, resting his chin on his hand. 

“I’m sure you’ll bring him to justice. You seem like a very upstanding man, Doctor.”

Hearing his title makes the Doctor sit up, and his frown deepens a bit, as if something has just occurred to him. “How did you happen across me, Harry? I don’t make my presence here common knowledge.” 

Good question. One that the Master has actually prepared an answer to. He blinks his wide, yellow eyes as innocently as he can, looking for all the world a clueless human- albeit one who just happens to be a bit cheetah-like. 

“Well- this fellow you called the Master, he was there muttering something about UNIT, and the Doctor, and- I figured a doctor would be my best chance at a cure, wouldn’t they? So I did my research, and- I was right!” He smiles sweetly. 

“You’re a very clever young man, Harry,” the Doctor says. He still sounds a little suspicious, but it’s the sort of suspicion that isn’t going to lead him anywhere. The Master is _careful_. 

“I do my best,” the Master says innocently, trying not to prickle at being called _young man_. Who knows how many years the Doctor has on him at this point in their lives? Not to mention the Doctor _he_ knows- she’s truly ancient, and it makes his blood boil to think of how much life she must have lived before him. 

He misses being young. Young and in love on Gallifrey, of course, but not just that. Young enough to believe that the bond between him and the Doctor is as reciprocal as it is unbreakable, that nothing could ever rip one of them away from the other. 

He’d kept believing that right up until he’d stood in the Matrix and learned that his dearest, oldest friend had lived so many lives, perhaps hundreds of them, before they’d ever even met. They’re not equals. They never have been. It’s impossible. 

The Master hardly realises how lost in thought he is until he flexes his hand, and the old leather of the chair suddenly pops and rips under his claws. He jumps, a scowl flickering across his face. He’s too angry, this time around. Far too prone to losing control of himself. 

“Everything alright, dear boy?” The Doctor had been watching him quietly up until then, and the Master wonders if he knows that something isn’t right. He’s not stupid; far from it. 

“Yes,” he says quickly, forcing a tight-lipped smile. “Yes. Sorry. I’m fine.” 

“Are you _sure_?” The Doctor leans forward, steepling his fingers, and the Master grits his teeth. He doesn’t like lying to this one. 

If he told this version of the Doctor who he was, he’d likely be greeted with open arms. A shoulder to cry on. Someone to stroke his hair and reassure him that of _course_ he was cared about, Koschei, what kind of a ridiculous question is that? 

But this Doctor doesn’t _know_. He hasn’t lived the bitter fighting. He hasn’t held the Master in a vault for the better part of a century, hasn’t watched him die in his arms, hasn’t had him try to steal his regenerations. Hasn’t abandoned him for dead on a ship stuck falling forever into a black hole. 

So he meets the Doctor’s eyes, and carries right on lying to him. 

“It just- hurts,” he says. “It comes and goes. I’d quite like that cure, if it’s ready yet.” 

“I‘ll go check for you,” the Doctor offers, getting up and walking to his TARDIS. The Master’s face twists, and he presses his palms to his eyes, allowing himself a few short seconds of angry, miserable agony before all of that has to drop away again, and he looks perfectly composed as the Doctor emerges holding another huge needle. 

“That’s...big,” he says, eyeing it warily. It’s filled with a faintly amber-coloured liquid- such a large amount that the Master is pretty sure having all of that injected would do some pretty nasty things to a human. Oh, well. He hardly has a choice. 

“Yes, well- my dear ship insists on mimicking the technology of this time period, for the most part. So...the needles are a little large. This one, I’m afraid, has to go straight into the neck.” 

What joy. The Master feels an instinctive, defensive growl rumble low in his throat, but he tugs his hoodie down, brushing aside hair that he’s allowed to grow just a little too long. 

“This won’t hurt a bit,” the Doctor says. _Liar_ , the Master thinks immediately, and he might have said it out loud if not for the way he suddenly feels the Doctor’s fingers pressing against his skin, warm and gentle. 

It’s been so, so long since he’s been touched like that. 

It leaves him speechless, breathless, dizzy- so much so that he barely even registers the pain of the needle going in. And it does hurt, in an unpleasantly cold way that makes his skin prickle. And then it draws out again, and the Doctor plucks a handkerchief from his pocket and dabs at the small spot of blood on the Master’s neck. 

“All done, dear boy. Admirable lack of screaming- I find that humans in my presence are often quite prone to that.” 

The Master manages a weak smile, and it’s only a moment later that he realises that the Doctor’s fingertips are still pressing the handkerchief against his neck. Right against the vein, where his pulse beats in a steady _one-two-three-four_. 

He jerks his head away, thinking fast and then covering up the movement with a coughing fit. If the Doctor has noticed any abnormalities, he doesn’t point them out- simply hurries to the sink in the corner to fetch him a glass of water. 

The Master takes it. It’s not a glass, it’s a laboratory beaker. Of course. 

“The coughing may be a side effect,” the Doctor muses. “By my calculations, you ought to have about an hour before it kicks in properly. I fear the process may be rather painful- can you get yourself home in that amount of time?” 

“Yes,” the Master says, lying through his teeth. He doesn’t want to be escorted home by more UNIT boys, or worse, given an offer to stay overnight. 

“Good lad.” The Doctor pats his shoulder, and then offers him a hand up. The Master sets down his beaker of water, taking the hand, and it does not escape his notice how the Doctor’s fingers linger on the pulse point of his wrist for just a second longer than they ought to. 

“I can probably see myself out,” the Master says quickly, already backing away towards the door. 

The Doctor looks like he wants to say something. He opens his mouth, even, and then a sad sort of shadow passes across his face; he shakes his head, and smiles. “Of course. It was a pleasure to meet you, Harry.” 

“Likewise,” the Master says, and it’s hardly even a lie. He hurries out of UNIT’s headquarters, pulling his hood up and striding out into the night. 

He’s got a flat about two hours’ walk from here. He considers running home, but after ten minutes, his stomach is churning, he feels too hot, and he has to resort to walking again as he gasps for breath. Not built for exercise, this body. Especially not with the war currently going on inside his cells. 

The Master at least manages to stumble into a back alley as the feverish heat overtakes him, stabbing pains filling his skull, shooting down his arms and pricking at the tips of his fingers. _Rather painful_ had been an understatement. He lets out a yowl of pain into the night, only to be cut off in a fit of wracking coughs as the stabbing agony reaches his vocal cords as well. He collapses, curling into himself and shaking as the cure does its work. 

Nearly three hours later, he emerges from the back alley, dazed and filthy, and stumbles the rest of the way home. The sun is just coming up; the few pedestrians out at this hour give him a wide berth. He could be homeless, he could be coming back from a particularly rough night out on the town- in the city, people like him are hardly a rare sight. 

The Master has never been so relieved to see the dingy interior of his flat. He beelines for the bedroom, studying himself in the filthy mirror. Brown eyes, normally shaped teeth, and no more claws. He pushes back his shaggy hair- even the patches of fur starting to form behind his ears are gone. Good. _Perfect_. 

The warm glow of relief fades quickly, though. The Master slumps onto his bed, peeling off the hoodie and wrapping himself in the thin blankets instead. He’s exhausted, and not even in a good way. The sort of exhaustion that he knows is going to leave him staring at the wall for hours upon hours. 

He’d known, at the end. The Doctor had figured out who he was, and he hadn’t said anything. The Master presses his eyes shut, and does his best not to imagine a timeline where the Doctor had called him back at the door, offered him a proper drink, let them talk like old friends. 

It wouldn’t have been genuine. Nothing between them could ever be genuine. But that doesn’t mean that it doesn’t hurt to think about it. 

One day, he thinks, he’ll have a _genuine_ talk with the Doctor. His Doctor. A few decades, and she’ll be in his grasp again, and they can talk. And the pain of being cured of the cheetah virus will be _nothing_ compared to what he intends to make her feel, because he’s already suffered through it all, still _is_ suffering, and so should she. 

Life _hurts_ , he thinks, pressing a hand over his hearts. But he is the Master. Pain is what he deals with. And he’s survived tonight, so he can get through just about anything. 

But he remembers the way the Doctor’s eyes had crinkled as he smiled, warm and genuine, so much like _his_ Doctor when she saw O, and- despite all of his determination- the Master can’t help but wonder just for a second if what he’s doing is _worth it_. 

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoyed!! comments and kudos are v much appreciated as always <3


End file.
